Friday, 16 November 2018

Burgos - The Town That Will Not Let Me Leave

A Dramatic Escalation of a Minor Event

Burgos is renowned for it's morzilla, or black pudding to us English and blood pudding in other parts of the world, but for me I can only think of something darker than the richness of that delicacy and even more sinister than the blackness of my favourite food and that is a Black Hole.

The black hole that is the implosion of a star, that leaves a gravity so great. it draws in and crushes anything that comes near it's gravitational pull. This black hole was caused by an innocuous escape of air from my rear tyre while travelling from Burgos on the N234 to Soria, 30kms out of Burgos, at a minute speck in the Universe called Cuevas de San Clemente. Yet this minute occurrence allowed this great vacuum to form in this corner of this vast universe, as to threaten to suck every ounce of spirit from within my soul on that cold October morning.

I had never considered the likelihood that Burgos would become the epi-centre of a Black Hole before, even though I had encountered many problems passing there in the past. I always put it down to a 'Burgos Diamond' as opposed to the 'Bermuda Triangle'. My four corners of that diamond were, La Cisterniga near Valladolid, where I bought my Montesa Impala, Liverpool, my home, Soria my first destination and Madrid the base for all operations in this area. After all I had experienced difficulties in money transfers when buying the bike, excess fees in transporting the bike past Burgos and breaking down outside of Plymouth when I arrived in England, that resulted in me being housed by a lovely couple for three days while getting it going. I left it in their garage, eventually returning a month later with a new carburetor and got it back to Liverpool for inspection and registration. Outside that diamond it had run perfect until the morning of departure.

The Day of Departure

Then problem after problem that seemed to get worse as I got nearer to Burgos. A night outside a petrol station in Whitchurch England trying to sort out the firing and the lights which left me riding in the dark 20 miles, and then worse, a sticking piston ring that caused the engine to stop until it cooled. This persisted right up to Burgos where it cut out and took me a whole hour to restart. I had hoped to be in Soria that night and intended to travel - Vitoria, Logrono Soria, but my phone died and I had no maps so decided to go the Burgos route. So here I was in Burgos with night approaching and still not resolved my lighting problem. I naturally found a bar to let the remaining light fade and also went to Carrafour for a bottle of Rioja to pass the darker hours till sleep. I found the entrance to a church that was sheltered from the rain that was coming in and the wind that was picking up and settled into my sleeping bag after slowly imbibing the Rioja from a tin cup I use for boiling up my coffee.

Morning came and after a cup of coffee and numerous cigarettes, plus a wait for a more comfortable riding temperature, set off for Soria. There's a five mile stretch of motorway out of Burgos to the N234 and the early signs of the gravitational pull of the Black Hole were showing when traveling the service road to the side of the autovia and misunderstood a sign that took me three miles back towards Burgos. I struggled two more times to exit and still finished on the Burgos direction side. At last I escaped and was on the N234 but after only 30 kilometers at a miniscule speck in the vastness of the universe under the name of Cuevas de San Clemente, a nondescript moment caused the deepest Black Hole to occur on the surface of a planet, that threatened to suck my very spirit from within my soul. That occurrence was the escape of air from my back tyre. Whether it was a Black Hole that formed or just a vortex that would grow in intensity to the magnitude of a black hole, I will never know. What I do know is that a puncture is such a minor event, as I have experienced many in my years of travelling, but this grew in magnitude in the blink of an eye. In real time it occurred in the time scale that you would read this next line.

Why is my rear wheel catching up with my front wheel, oh a puncture. What the fuck! Bang,,

but in the slo-mo world of my brain it went,

Oh shit my bike is going sideways, Time to steer into the motion. What the hell's happening to my steering. Christ this is mad I can't stop the wobbling, There's a road to the right. Try and steer onto it, oh shit I'm heading into a gully........

The Scene of the Crash (with the small gully running between the road and the building)

I lay still on the concrete, staring at the ground wondering if this was death, until the pain came slowly in to re-affirm I was very much alive. At first it was general pain that then became more specific and local especially in my leg. I was feeling faint and thought I was going to pass out, but that was because my head was over the gas spill that lay in a pool below my face. Then voices, Spanish voices but I understood every word, but ambulance is pretty recognisable wherever you are I guess. The owner of one those voices moved my bike further away and then someone , who is not so medically astute lifted me off the road and onto a chair they had brought. I didn't care I was upright and away from the fumes enough to light a cigarette. Then came the children who were off school due to the fiesta,. brought by their proud parents, as they thought their little darlings could interpret for them. How are you? What is your name? My name is Hannah, I am ten years. quickly followed, but at least it was a welcome distraction. One man offered to house my bike which I was so pleased about and then the ambulance arrived and ended the big event of the year for these lovely helpful people.

What I learned from a later examination of the bike, was that the moment I went into this little gully at the side of the road, both the bikes and my own momentum, after hitting the end of the gully, only continued by way of the both of us somersaulting through the air and onto the concrete of the side road. Damage to the top of my helmet and the top of the headlamp, speedometer, top surface of the front mudguard and top box, left little doubt as to the sequence of our projection from road to ground. Furthermore the condition of the back wheel where every spoke was loose had caused the instability of the bike and turned this minor event into a major one. But that is for later in the story, I was at least in the back of an ambulance with neck brace and inflatable leg immobiliser fitted and getting pain treatment. From that moment on I was out of control of my destiny as that Vortex/Black Hole sucked me deeper and deeper into the abyss. I always joked with my family that if I was travelling without insurance as I always do, then I would ask people, if I was conscious, not to call an ambulance and I would lie where I was till I recovered or died. I don;t know why this thought did not occur to me when I first heard 'ambulance'. Maybe it was because I was in Europe and part of the union and I would have no problems, or maybe the pain was too bad to think of the alternatives. The ambulance crew at this time were happily cutting my brand new left Chelsea boot in two so they could remove it which I did protest but to no avail. Maybe they would amputate my foot and it wouldn't be an issue any more. I could spend my life stealing the right shoe off the demonstration racks outside of shoe shops for the rest of my days and save a fortune. Police arrived, checked my documents, but not thoroughly as I had the insurance policy from first entry to UK with the Spanish registration and not the latter policy under UK registration. We will take your bike somewhere safe they said, but I was quick enough to tell them a local had offered to house it. OK they said and I was off back to Burgos.

I arrived at the Unversity Hospital of Burgos, in good spirits thanks to the happy gas painkiller and an injection. No hanging about on trolleys in corridors here and I was whisked straight off for x-rays, neck back shoulders for starters and then a short wait for my leg and elbow shots. My humour was showing through, even in Spanish and I was becoming a little darling to the staff there. I think also because I was one of those rare, for Burgos, foreign old farts, that have mishaps when abroad. They were ever so proud to tell me that they had found a fracture on my Tibular above the ankle, as though they had just discovered South America for the first time. No shit I thought as I looked at my left elephant leg lying alongside my other ostrich leg. The Spanish are known for being empathetic, but it was like being treated at the butchers shop when they came to slap a plaster cast on. Foot pushed upwards without warning to the desired angle was the first moment followed by three staples in a piece of flapping flesh on my right hand, driven in with no warning at all. This was followed by a quick body slam and two abdominal injections maybe for my flatulance, who knows. They were most efficient throughout and at one point while they were handling me, I thought they were going to check my prostrate. Fortunately not and I was then bungled into a wheel chair and deposited in a room on my own. I was then informed of everything they had checked, and found, and when my next treatment should be and I was asked if I would still be in Spain etc. I couldn't give them any answers, even to the big one which really bothered them. Who can collect you? "Well nobody really" I answered."I have friends in Madrid , Soria and Valladolid, all 100 to 200Kms away, but no one I would ask to collect me." I was puzzled as in England they'd just give you a pair of crutches and wave you goodbye. They insisted I give them one phone number which I decided David in Soria was the best option. To my shock they were immediately on the phone and conversing with him and too quickly, to grasp what was being discussed. I was trying to interrupt the woman to no avail and when she concluded her conversation informed me, that David would be on his way to collect me. I was horrified to hear this and had envisaged getting to the bus station on crutches and heading there under my own steam, as weak as that was. As soon as I was out of her room I was on the phone to tell him not to come the 250 km round trip just to pick me up. He told me I would not be allowed to leave unless he did. I was flummoxed and saw my only escape was to let him drive over for me. I asked the control nurse why I needed picking up and was told, it was because I could not walk unaided. I asked about crutches, but they don't stock them in the hospital and I need to buy them outside, where I asked, well today nowhere because it is a fiesta. Lesson one do not have an accident on a fiesta, (more of this later). I was locked in, no escape, not even to go to the toilet, go for a coffee or go out to have a cigarette. Six hours of incarceration followed. I tried to make a break for freedom but was stopped speeding past the desk in the wheelchair and after a dressing down, was wheeled back into my cell and the door closed shut behind me. This was Alcatraz. The door opened after what seemed like an eternity and there stood two angels, social workers, with beautiful smiles and one with a good command of English. I explained my grievances in not having a drink since the morning and they whisked me out to the small cafeteria only thirty yards away, that if I had known, it was so close, I'd have crawled commando style under the desk where the camp commandant was stationed, without her noticing that there had been a prison break. The angels were delighted to not be dealing with a drug related problem or a domestic violence matter and Carmen, the second of the two angels was getting more confidence in her English, so much we were making jokes and light conversation in minutes and after I polished off a sandwich and a coffee her phone rang to announce the arrival of David. They wheeled me out of the main entrance into freedom and up to Davids car while I hurriedly smoked two cigarettes in rapid succession to replenish the missing nicotine of the day. And so I was off to Soria in Davids car past the scene of the accident to arrive in Soria at 9pm.

I hobbled and hopped hanging from Davids shoulder, from where he parked the car, to Davids block, where he lived on the first floor. Crawled up the stairs to the first floor on my hands and knees and it was only when I arrived at the top step, David exclaimed "Shit Harry we have a lift (elevator)" Our laughter would have woken the neighbourhood if it wasn't a fiesta and we entered. Fortunately we had picked up a bottle of wine at the Chinese near the centre and I was able to unwind yet still have some verbal wrestling as to how much activity I should be engaging in and a plan for the following day. I was prepared to go and buy some wood at the bricolage and make some Long John Silver type pirate crutches. Not only was this more economical but the arthritis in my hands plus the added staples in the palm of my right hand was going to make life more difficult with the more modern equivalent ones they have now. I knew I needed underarm crutches so my weight was not on the hand grips. We argued about it in the morning too, but because David had other things to do I conceded to him, to buy a pair of modern crutches from the Farmacia. I asked to be deposited at the local bar while I waited for his return and quickly befriended the manageress who supplied me with cigarettes, as that was on my shopping list along with the crutches. Eventually David returned with tobacco and those god damn awful things which are supposed to aid you, support you and keep your foot off the floor. Not a cat in hell's chance and the best I could do was take some weight of my leg while suffering excruciating pain in my wrists and my shoulders not to mention driving these staples deeper into the flesh.

David goes to his parents in his home town on a Sunday and as I had met them on my last trip was so happy to be invited again. A Sunday b-b-q and it was gorgeous. I hadn't met his father the last visit and I had the chance to meet him this time and he turned out quite the character David had described. His mum and Dad are both down to earth sorts, no frills and I feel really comfortable being there and also enjoyed his fathers choice of Rioja.

This was a bigger accident than my little happening

There had been a storm the night before and on the news was the story of a building crane that was blown over and came to rest on a block of flats only 200 meters away from Davids. There were no casualties and on the way back David diverted to get a view of the scene. While pointing it out in the darkness to me, I realised the traffic had come to a stop, but David was still focused on the crane. I yelped and fortunately we stopped just short of having my other leg crushed in an impact. The crane was more visible the following morning from Davids kitchen and I had the opportunity of being entertained as they dismantled it in sections to return it to ground. I couldn't even see much damaged to the building structure and I think it just leaned itself over to rest on the roof of the block of flats.

The Monday threw up the question.... Where is my bike? Did it finish up in a garage of a resident of Cuevas de San Clemente or did the police have it taken away? I got in touch with a friend in Madrid, Moira who I have known for 10 years. If anyone could find my bike I knew she could. It took a day or two and only when she realised she had a contact in the Guadia Civil was she able to locate the exact location. It was housed in a deposito or a compound as we like to call it, on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Burgos. Yes that Black Hole was starting to pull me back in again. we arranged to go out there on the Tuesday after conceding to David yet again. as I was prepared to travel by bus alone. David often argued that I was like his father. Head strong and unable to compromise, but I think David was very much like his father and also was head strong or we would not have argued so much. It takes two to tango as they say.

I needed first and foremost to reclaim my clothes as I had been in the same outfit I had left England in nine days previously and I also needed to inspect the damage to the bike. This was only five days after my fracture and I was still contemplating continuing my ride once the bike was repaired. I made three plans depending on the outcome of the inspection and the state of my leg and it's ability to support me while kick starting it. None of these plans were well thought out, but this was my mindset at the time, so on the Tuesday morning we went to Burgos.We arrived in Burgos at eleven and followed Davids satnav to the deposito or pound as I like to call it. The satnav placed us in an industrial estate just on the edges of Burgos, but we couldn't see the actual premises where my bike was supposedly stored. David parked up and said he would locate the place and due to me struggling on my sticks, would not let me follow him. Fifteen minutes later he returned saying that he'd seen the bike but was not allowed to enter the pound and we would need a permit from the Policia Local to view it and claim my personal belongings. He was also told that they were closed from 2pm till 5pm for siesta. We set off to find the Policia Local and then find a parking space. After dropping down towards the center we found a space but it was going to be a long walk uphill back to the office, when I remembered the Carrafour at the Centro Commercial only four hundred metres above the police station. We decided to park there and have some lunch while we waited till the pound re-opened. David arranged to meet an old friend from his home town and arranged to meet up with her in the centro commercial. I told them I would go to the police station alone and sort out the permit while they had their get together.. It was hard on my crutches to get to the police station but when I arrived they told me they had no record of the bike being removed by them. It took one officer with a bit of brain to go and call the Guardia Civil and confirm it was them who had dealt with my accident. Fortunately their office was only across the main road and, it only took me 15 minutes to negotiate the short journey. The officers there were most helpful and when I mentioned that I needed a permit to get my belongings and inspect the bike they were bewildered. "You don't need a permit, just your passport they asserted. I explained that we had been told by the woman at the pound that we would not be allowed to enter without one. I gave them the number of the pound and they spoke to the woman and then confirmed to me that I did not need a permit. I struggled back up the hill on my crutches to Carrafour, the staples being pressed deeper into the flesh on my hand as it supported my weight on the grips. At last I got there, met up with David and his friend, had a beer and then David and I set off once more to the pound. This time David dropped me at the gate and went off to park. I saw the woman for the first time through the barred gate of the pound and I explained why I was there. But you need a permit from the Policia Local. No I don't, I asserted and that I had been there and they said I don't need one. We argued and as I asked her if she remembered speaking to the officer who called her, David arrived and took over the conversation as he was a native Spanish speaker. I guess I had geared myself up to a fight after David had told me in the morning that the guy he spoke to was most unhelpful, because my temper was shortening as my frustration increased. I was trying to interject into their discussion and unable and I eventually got cross with David, who after all was trying to help me. I was also livid as I could see all the bikes two hundred meters away, just parked in the open, with no cover over them. The woman then asked me if I could see my bike. I was supposed to locate a bike in a row of bikes parked sideways to me from 200 metres with binoculars. No I couldn't, but if it was in the middle of them I wouldn't have been able to see it even from 10 metres. Then came the question. " When was the accident?" "10 days ago" I responded quickly. "Then it is not here, as nothing has come in here for two months" she smiled. The discussion continued between David and her and I was thinking that my bike may have been put in the care of the local guy at Cuevas San Clemente. I was getting really agitated now and then it transpired we were not at the right pound and the one we should have been at was a Kilometre further on from where we were. Satnavs!! I hate them. Back in the car and travelled the kilometre and found the correct location. It was a large garage and on entering, without a permit we were shown my bike that was parked behind a large sliding curtain. After showing my passport I was able o gather my belongings , check the condition of the bike, which wasn't too bad apart from noticing that the whole back wheel was wrecked. Every spoke was loose and the wheel was sat at a 20 degree angle to vertical due to the lack of tension in the spokes.So this is why, what should have been a regular stop on a flat tyre, resulted in such a violent loss of control. It wasn't just the violent loss of control of my bike that was caused by the puncture either.

No me quito mi casco

I had earlier lost control of my normal self of calmness quicker than I had lost control of my bike . I am normally a calm easy going guy, but when other people have control of what I can do and can't do I react very crazily, as though my life is endangered and I fight to regain power of my situation as hard as I can. Here I was at the mercy of other people, who either from a business point of view or close friends deciding what is best for me from their point of view and neither situation was helping me regain control of my situation. Again I felt I had been sucked into a black hole that in spite of minor fluctuations in the strength of that gravity, there seemed no escape from. I wasn't proud of how I argued with David nor was I proud at how I argued with the woman at the pound, but while I could excuse myself due to the stress of the whole situation, I could and should have reacted better.

The journey back to Soria and a sky as dramatic as the day had been

Before loading the car with my belongings, we asked what the cost was to regain my bike in three days. We were told €150, so we left to return to Soria. The argument between David and I continued for ten minutes before descending into total silence, but later in the journey we were back talking again thankfully. He had been doing the best he could for me and didn't deserve the wrath of my frustration. I still had ideas of returning with a wheel and riding out of there and posted as such on facebook. My friend Moira came on and suggested I go and spend some days in Madrid with her and her wee little lad Jamie who was 7 months old. It seemed a good idea while I raised the cash for the bike rescue and a spare wheel, so off I went to Madrid on the €10 stopping bus which follows the entire Route Nacional to Guadlajara and then into Madrid. Apart from enjoying Moira and Jamies company, I managed to borrow the cash from a member of my football website and purchase a spare wheel. The wheel was due to arrive the following Monday and I was able to get to the Triskel Irish pub, the home of The Madrid Reds (Liverpool) at Tribunal over the weekend to watch the game. Before the football I asked Moira to ring the pound and confirm the fee for collecting the bike on the Tuesday. She was on the phone for a long period speaking to the woman at the pound and I wasn't paying too much attention to the conversation while playing with wee Jimmy, but my ears pricked the moment I heard the words Madre Mia. The words were breathed out like a sigh, but was higher decibels than a fire alarm inside of my head. The conversation continued for some minutes, but felt like hours before the call ended. OK How much were the first words from my mouth. €705 and rising €16 a day until released from their greedy little hands. A few words came out of my mouth that were more extreme than Madre Mia. It's so much because it was a fiesta and they have to pay double time blah blah. I wasn't listening at this point, as there was just this loud humming noise resonating between each ear drum, resonating so loud that it stopped all brain function completely. I sat there for a long while in silence apart from this humming noise that continued and numbed my thought process, or scrambled any rational thought process. I had already paid the €100 for the wheel and it was on the way. Could I stop it, send it back, what can I do, where can I find the cash? I could have saved the money from my pension over time but with that €16 a day fee it would be like trying to fill the tank of a Chevrolet through a straw while the engine was on full revs. They asked Moira if my insurance covered the cost to which Moira explained that the insurance did not cover vehicle recovery outside the UK, or damage to my own bike. It drops to basic third party cover the moment one leaves our shores. The woman said many foreigners faced the same problem and even sold there vehicles to cover the costs..... In fact we could get a dealer to come and offer a price and if it's more than what I owed them I get the difference. I faced losing my bike in this black hole, a bike I'd struggled to buy, struggled to get roadworthy, struggled to get to these shores and for what maybe a couple of hundred Euros if lucky. We had the weekend to decide, while I was waiting for my wheel. Sunday morning arrived and a new spirit stirred within me and a fight that had almost been extinguished roared again. They are not stealing my bike, I proclaimed. I will find a way.Moira saw my determination and offered to borrow off a credit card, whatever I needed. but it needed paying back before it incurred interest charges. I quickly calculated how much I had and how much I would need and how much I could save in a month from my pension. It came to €400 and we agreed on the loan and sat and waited for the wheel, which arrived late Monday afternoon. Too late to get to Burgos before the pound shut and too late to take advantage of an offer of no charge for the weekend coming, if I could retrieve the bike on the Monday after. Another friend in Madrid said he could bring the bike to Madrid on the Friday for me with the truck he drives, so instead of trying to attempt to ride it away with one leg in plaster, I decided to camp out in Burgos for three nights with the bike and wait for the cavalry to arrive. I set off with the weight of the wheel dangling from my crutches and my sleeping bag in a bag on my back and arrived in a cold Burgos at 1am on the Tuesday morning.I sat in the bus station for the night and googled the local bus out to the pound, which stopped only ten minutes walk away, which turned into fourty minutes carrying my wheel. The nearest stop to the pound was about a kilometre away and that too took me fourty minutes or so to reach. I entered the garage of the pound just as the woman drove in and I entered after her. The mechanic was first to greet me and I told him I had come for my bike. Where are you parked he enquired. and I told him I wasn't and that I was going to push the bike the five kms into Burgos and wait there for my friend. You are crazy to which I replied "no I'm broke". I went and paid the bill to the woman and the mechanic said he would change my wheel for me. We extracted the wheel from the packaging only to find I'd bought a front one and not a rear one. Not to worry the mechanic assured me, we can swap the tubes over and that will be good. I then got a message from Moira saying the woman had called her and said they would drop me and the bike in Burgos, although after the wheel was fitted there was no offer from the mechanic so with 'loco' ringing in my ears I pushed the bike out to freedom. Moira told me that the woman had rang her and played hell with her for leyying this old decrepit man with a broken leg travel all that way to push a bike without knowing when his friend would arrive to help him. Moira responded, " he is seventy and travelled the world, you tell him" The wheel was still unstable and pushing it with the spare wheel and all on top of all my other bike stuff, was proving an impossible task. After 4 or 5 stops for a cigarette, my leg was causing me much grief and the plaster cast was breaking into pieces. I realised I had my tools on the bike, so quickly set about tightening all the spokes on the wheel, to give some stability and then set off again. I passed the other pound of the Policia Local and saw the woman I had argued with the week before, so called her over to the iron gates and apologised. She was fine about it all and recognised I was stressed at the time. Another cigarette before continuing. I had gone less than a kilometre and was struggling, but I knew I had three days to get to Burgos. Things weren't made easy due to vehicles parked on the pavement and I had to go on and off the kerb many times to get past them. It was at one such manouvre, that a guy appeared from within a large building and called me over. I put the bike on the stand and he was in the act of telling me he had two Montesa Impala's as well, when he noticed my plaster cast on my leg. He, Alberto, asked me my story. After listening he told me to push the bike inside his premises and told me I could leave it there for a day, a week, a month, a year, as long as I needed and free of any charge. I don't think he finished the sentence before I was half way through the gates and wheeling the bike inside to stay with his two Montesa's. This Angel that had been sent at this moment then told me he was going into Burgos and he would give me a lift. He did and I arrived in the bar I had a beer at the night before my crash. I sat for a moment free of the burden, not only of the spare wheel and the bike but the worry I had been carrying for two weeks on my shoulders. I was liberated and felt my old self returning with each sip of beer I took there. Clarity followed and I realised that rather than bringing the bike back to Madrid on the Friday it would be better leaving it in Alberto's safe hands in Burgos until my leg had healed.. That decision made I headed for a bus back to Madrid.I tried to get follow on treatment for my leg and hand when I returned to Madrid but due to not having my insurance card, they wouldn't treat me. I also had no money to afford a flight back to England due to it being school holidays that push the price of flights north of £250. I searched for alternatives and realised I could book a series of bus tickets bit by bit from my approaching pension.I had enough to book the first ticket at the weekend that took me from Barcelona to Paris with Oui Bus for only €40 I then had to wait till the following weekend to book a ticket from Madrid to Barcelona and then Paris to London. The weekend after I could buy my ticket from London to Liverpool. The longest stopovers were in Barcelona for seven hours and London for nine hours. This was a run of three overnight trips and I decided that I was not going to take a chance with my leg in plaster as the swelling was causing me so much pain especially during the night. Off came the plaster and a bandage applied and I left for England and home.

A beautiful morning in Barcelona to lift the spirits

Any feelings that I had, that I had escaped Burgos soon evaporated, as I still had to return for the bike. The final straw was on returning home to face a bill for €250 for my hospital treatment. Now for once I'm not complaining, but just wish the ambulance had taken my bike to the hospital and left me in the road. That was only a third of the cost of dealing with my bike by the storage pound My leg is healing though and as soon as the new year comes, I will be back to Burgos, the town that won't let me leave, with retro rockets firing to pull me out of that gravitation that is holding me back still.The total cost of one small puncture on one little motorbike amounted to €1,250 including all bus fares and expenses. and without the parts I need to put it back to the condition it was.